The First Time I Chose to Protect

I remember him as an infant.

Small.

Quiet.

Watching everything.

Even then.

I held him once.

Carefully.

He didn’t cry.

He simply… looked at me.

As if trying to understand.

I decided something then.

I rarely make decisions lightly.

“Then we shall ensure no one ever makes you feel small again,” I told him.

He did not understand.

But I did.

Years later, I saw him again.

Smaller than he should have been.

Quieter than anyone should be.

“Beckett,” I said gently.

He flinched.

Not from me.

From expectation.

“I’m here to help you,” I continued.

He nodded.

Barely.

We began with something simple.

“What do you like?” I asked.

He hesitated.

A long time.

“…Books,” he said finally.

“Good,” I replied. “So do I.”

He relaxed.

Slightly.

We worked in silence.

Comfortable silence.

Not the other kind.

When he made a mistake, he panicked.

“I’m sorry—”

“You’re learning,” I interrupted.

He froze.

“No one gets punished for that,” I added.

He looked at me then.

Properly.

For the first time.

Ah.

There you are.

I adjusted his work gently.

“You’re quite intelligent,” I said.

He shook his head.

“No.”

“Yes,” I replied. “You are.”

I do not repeat myself often.

But for him, I did.

Some things are not to be shaped.

They are to be protected.